


produced from the raw (my, virginia!)

by verulam (krynon)



Series: borderlands shortfic! [4]
Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Addiction, Anal Fingering, Hallucinations, Heightened Mental States, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Surreal, intravenous drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krynon/pseuds/verulam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is about the whole drug situation is that Jack’s got his number. </p><p>Jack’s got his damn number, and he’s <i>going</i> to call it in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	produced from the raw (my, virginia!)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Intravenous drug use (implied to be opiate), hallucinations, stream of consciousness, anal fingering, addiction, heightened mental states, 
> 
> Before anyone says anything: yes, I know that opiates aren't hallucinogens.

The silence is hardly deafening. Smothering, maybe. Certainly not _deafening,_ but something negative nonetheless- it’s the kind of silence that makes his bones ache with weight and his eyes twitch around, searching for some glimmer of blue and a sharp-tongued sneer.

The thing is though, Jack’s got his number now, and addiction was a powerful thing.

The chair hadn’t been the start, but it had been the home-coming. Hyperion was _notorious,_ callous and cold and shied from reality- and usually the _opposite_ of sober. Rhys would know.

But he’d been better, recently, a little less- a little _less,_ spending a little more time on ladder-climbing than submitting to corporate control. After all, Rhys figures Jack probably only ever started to take anything after he’d already _won_ Hyperion. If Rhys is gonna do the same (and Rhys _is_ gonna do the same), he’s got to do things _right,_ and that meant doing them _sober._

The weeks down on Pandora help. He’d been clean before, but there were so many refused offers that if Rhys had a penny for every one? He’d be richer than Jack, by now. Richer than _Hyperion itself,_ because Hyperion was always spending its money on galactic-class drugs and breathing in smoke-haze like air.

And the thing is, that Jack’s got his _fucking number._

It happens for the first time after The Chair. Jack can see inside him _properly,_ then, and catches those fried nerve endings with a smile more brutal than Rhys has ever seen. Jack had cooed and sang his praises, “been clean for a while, huh?”, and whispered things about corporate climbing and how President Rhys didn’t need to _worry_ about those things.

Rhys wasn’t an _underling,_ anymore, why on earth would he say no? And Jack says it soft and slow and purred in his ears, never _mind_ his bound hands and the sharp point in his temple. Jack says it _convincingly,_ and suddenly Rhys’ brain has never felt so… he’s not sure of the word. Itchy, maybe, _craving,_ spiteful in the way it’s telling him that it was okay, it was normal, there was nothing wrong and Nothing Was The Matter.

Jack unbinds his hands, and there’s a snap-crack-click- _snap_ , and _oh._

It wasn’t… It wasn’t drugs. But it damn near _felt_ like-

Something through the port, drip-crackle electricity into the recess of his brain. Woozy and on _edge,_ something-something hormones and Rhys _knows_ it’s not the same, knows it isn’t because Jack is curling out sweet words and dragging something dark through him, and then-

Everything _drips,_ slow and sweet and oozing something that Rhys can’t place, swirling, and when Rhys tries to look away his eyes drag and track far too slowly.  

“Oh,” He says, and tries not to focus on the way his voice is odd and creeping in his ears, the way his forearm aches and his blinks don’t match with the way his vision is flickering.

“Uh- _huh._ Good stuff, right Rhys? That’s the _Galactic Class experience,_ uploaded directly to your _skull._ ”

When Rhys breathes out, it feels like there's _energy_ in his breathe, expelled and lost, and then when he breathes in again he’s _static, electricity and fire and the way things crackle up pylons, electricity towers,_ voltage and time running not-quite, breathing in and then _out,_ but the energy-

He’s _crackling_ with it, rolling up and down him and Rhys giggles, laughs with something breathless and endless and _amazed,_ doesn’t- it hadn’t _felt_ like an upper, had felt soft, but- _but-_

Jack cackles from somewhere distant and far too close. “Had to calm you down first, babe. Galactic Class, remember? This feeling is banned is _18_ systems, and that shit would short out your gross little dweeb heart right _away.”_

God, Rhys is- he’s shaking, in and out of himself- it’s- it’s-

He’s exhilarated, breathing in _everything,_ shock of heat-bright-birdsong in his head, dripping feeling rapidly reversed as everything shocks _back,_ up, out, over-  There isn’t enough room in Rhys for this _feeling_ , and God, whatever Jack was pumping into his head must have been a euphoriant too because Rhys wants to _cry,_ wants to connect and save and bring together all of the people that were down on Pandora and-

And-

God, he’s… There’s so _much,_ Rhys’ smile is almost wider than his _face,_ his nerves are bright-alight and singing with it, yelling, pleading at ‘no more’ and ‘yes please’ and when there’s a shock of heat at his groin and he mewls, Jack smiles a _mean_ smile, makes a sly sound and _purrs._

“Oh, you _like_ it, right babe? You _love_ this feeling?”

Rhys avoids the _want_ , avoids the ‘ _more’_ , listens instead to the way the background buzz is now a background symphony, ignoring the curl of it underneath his skin, ignoring the _swift-powerful-bang_ as Jack flits around and stares him deep in the eyes with flickers and jumps of existence-

“Hah, oh my god. I knew you’d be a lightweight, but this is… You’re _out of it!_ ” Jack says, but Rhys doesn’t listen because he’s busy, buzzing back forth and feeling _everything-_

“Okay then,” he says, and this time there’s something in his voice like displeasure, so Rhys looks up just as he’s staring back at the port and- “That’s enough of _that,_ ” He says, and Rhys doesn’t have the time to even say ‘ _no_ ’ before it’s _gone._

He-

There’s nothing. It’s drained, pulled, dissipated as if it never was.  

Jack cackles and flickers, and when Rhys pulls his wrists into his chest and curls into his knees, he’s not sure he’s ever felt colder.

***

That, of course, is only the start. After that, the rejection that had been _easy_ gets harder and harder. His veins itch, his head _aches_ , and his arms shake as if he’s feeling withdrawal from something he never took.

(Rhys remembers last time. He doesn’t want to do it again.)

It takes _weeks_ to break him. Jack tries hard but Rhys has done this _before,_ walked this road and cried afterwards, and he-

He doesn’t want to. But he’s not superhuman. Rhys was as bad as every other Hyperion sucker, and Rhys goes back to Handsome Jack, because that was what Rhys _did._

Jack doesn’t use a body around Rhys. Instead he flickers, shines blue into the corners of Rhys’ eyes, and snaps taller than he probably should. Rhys is beginning to feel like it isn’t even a _handicap_ for him, like instead it’s a fun game and one that Jack is _winning._

When Rhys puts in the order, Jack doesn’t say anything. He smiles though, with teeth, the kind of smile a shark might have if it were hungry for blood and stood in front of a meal.

When it arrives, Jack stays silent. Everything is under his watch- Jack says, “No, further _up,”_ and Rhys straps the belt above his arm tighter. “Flick- _Flick it,_ for crying out loud, you’re here for a good time, not an ‘air embolism’ time-”-

Rhys flicks the needle and holds his breath.

Rhys breathes out, steadies his hands, feels the sharp-dark-prick at his elbow and sighs. Pushes in- then pulls the plunger out a little bit, sees the flash of blood up the metal and thinks ‘Well, this is it’, and Rhys throws his self-restraint to the wind and _presses._

Jack smiles at his shoulders, and Rhys resists the urge to smile back.

“Ah, kids these days,” Jack mumbles. “In my day you had to _work_ for your high. Acids and heating, the whole damn shebang. What’d you buy, anyway? If I hear you’re buying low class shit, I’m gonna pump your pain receptors _full._ ”

Rhys sighs and doesn’t reply.

It’s starting to hit, and the shaking has _stopped._

It’s not like it was from the port. It’s different, more savage, bright and slow and dripping.

“-Oh,” Rhys mumbles, because it’s _hitting now._

It’s- there’s power here, like sunlight is in his bones, in his brain, in his everything, and he’s- he’s warm, floating, _oh,_ and he could- he could reach out and touch the stars and the stars would say _thank you,_ and-

Oh.

(The walls move. The walls are moving and- This-)

Rhys breathes out again, slow as he can, gentle and pleasant and rolling, and-

(The walls weren’t _meant_ to move. Last time he checked, they weren’t painted in colour-flares either.)

He’s- _oh,_ he could get used to this, every inch of his calm and relaxed and-

(He- The walls-)

Jack advances into his vision and Rhys calls out a wordless word, sings a prayer that is beyond him, can’t make it work and doesn’t _care_ to-

He-

Jack puts his hand up to Rhys’ face and he’s something different, in flesh-and-bone-and-blood, and when Jack puts a hand to his face Rhys feels his whole body _twitch,_ roll, shift, rolling muscle up and around and towards Jack’s face, but-

Jack _isn’t_ Jack, he’s- the wrong colour, dripping with shape-colour-sound-sensation, and Rhys reels back as much as he can and rests his head on the floor. He’s- he’s so _warm,_ purring and curled around a fire and the walls are soft enough to sleep, Jack twists up and down around him with eyes over-sharp and over-dim, soft fingers so soft, Rhys falls further back until he’s sinking through the floor-

Sharp-force- _snap,_ and Jack is picking him up, yanking him over, pulling and dragging as his brain sings and eyes peer back-forth at the way the room is _melting,_ caramel and molten sugar, pinks and purple-greens, sighing-

The impact of the chair barely feels like an impact at all. It’s not soft, but his muscles are as soft and smooth as he’s ever been, when there’s a sharp _snap_ at his temple Rhys sighs with it instead of flinching.

“Holy _shit kid,_ you’re friggin’ _tripping._ ”

Rhys thinks ‘yeah, no shit,’ and then he’s floating again, pulse after pulse of warm, dragging, up and down his spine. He smiles.

“Woah _man,_ ” laughs Jack, and Rhys feels it the moment he sits in his head and rolls with the same things Rhys is feeling- “What did you _take?”_

“D’n rem’ber,” he slurs, and sighs out the next few minutes in hazy warm-sweet silence.

Jack grins up at him- down at him, purrs, pressure-

“Nghah,” Rhys breathes it out but the pressure is hot-tight-warm at his groin, pressed _slow_ to him, _deep_ in at all of the places he’s craving and-

“Good boy,” says Jack, but it’s choked and swirling, and when Rhys reaches up to touch and feel _more,_ he can barely move his limbs, flattened and weak. “ _Good boy,_ ” he purrs, hands reaching and pressing at his cock, and it’s all Rhys can do to paw down at Jack’s crotch, but- Rhys can’t tell if this is Jack’s body or the AI, the colours are not right and his brain is slow, Jack’s hand strokes and he murmurs out something too deep and dark to hear.

And he’s- he can’t figure it out, his cock is stuff beneath the pressure and he’s- he’s _near,_ somehow, ten-minutes-or-less and he’s near and-

Jack removes the pressure and Rhys bucks.

“Hnahgh,” he says. There’s a flood in his veins and he almost sobs, laughing and smiling and everything is _filled,_ filled and good, even though he didn’t come and needed to, it’s-

The pressure is back. Jack- it _must_ be Jack, Jack’s hands, massaging at his cock and growling down obscenities, hazy-wide,  “Please…”, and eye-contact even though Jack’s eyes aren’t where he’s expecting-

Floating, _god,_ Rhys is floating, Jack’s lifting him up and placing him down again, and-

He’s physical, must be, because Jack is hard-strong beneath him, and-

Fingers slip beneath him, press and then slip away, then blunt heat in his mouth and he-

There’s swirls, shapes. Warm touch and _hot_ skin, buzzing skin-sensation-sweat, then Jack swirls his fingers around his tongue and Rhys _hums._ It’s vibrating, all through him and through him _harshly,_ up and down and-

Fingers out, heat, pressure at his ass and _oh,_ pressure at his _cock,_ Rhys is _reeling,_ swirling, breathing prayers and thank yous and everything he can manage. His skin is so _hot,_ Jack’s body _so hot,_ flooding _something still in his head-_

Rhys, as Jack slips his fingers in and _pushes,_ easy with the way his muscles are soft, blinks once. And then twice, and then three times, and before he knows it his eyes are shut.

Rhys dimly hears: “Oh, for- Son of a _taint, Rhys, don’t fall asleep-_ ”

Rhys falls asleep.

***

It’s all good until it’s over.

“ _Ow,”_ Rhys says, and blinks up. His muscles feel torn, and he-

Jack stands above him.

“Oh, babe. I never knew you’d be so… _compliant._ ”

That’s it, then. Jack _had_ his number, and Jack called it in.

“Hm,” Rhys mutters, because there isn’t much else to say.

“Never _knew_ you were such an addict, kid. Begging for more, calling my name… Give anything to have that again, right?”

Rhys doesn’t say anything, and shuts his eyes.

“I’m buying more of that stuff. Say goodbye to your _pro-duct-ivity,_ baby!”

Footsteps, clacking on cold tile. That’s the worst part. His head's splitting and his muscles are ripped to shreds.

Rhys thinks ‘no’, but doesn’t do that much at all. Rhys thinks ‘for fuck’s sake Rhys, not _again._ ’

There’s the sounds of metal hitting the trashcan, a cold thing at his arm, and Jack staring deep into his face. If Rhys could do more than squint his eyes open, he’d guess Jack would be staring at them.

He rolls over, flops down, feels the harsh bite and cold sting of the floor, and shifts against it. He’d paw at his arm if he could. He’s mumbling out groans, saying ‘no’, trying to abate the bright air and twists of his limbs.

But the thing is, Jack’s got his number.

Jack’s got his _fucking_ number.

So when Rhys thinks ‘no’, what he means is: ‘well, it’s too late now.’

The silence then is hardly deafening. The roaring in his ears, and the way his arm aches and shivers and his head feels like it’s splitting apart? _That’s_ deafening. He thinks of corporate climbing and of President Rhys, and of turning down offers to _be something._

Well, Rhys thinks, and shifts his arm underneath him. It’s too late now.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at: verulamion.tumblr.com <3


End file.
